


what a weight to live under

by liebgott



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Gen, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15744789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liebgott/pseuds/liebgott
Summary: Kent wrote until his hand cramped, and then he read it back, nodding and marking the most important items with scribbly stars. Calling it a bucket list felt too grand, so instead he titled it “HOW TO BE LESS AWFUL”, underlined it three times, and closed the notebook.





	what a weight to live under

**Author's Note:**

> a character study punctuated by cacti, yoga, a weird amount of references to kale, and a kind eyed yoga teacher, because i really think nobody is kind enough to kent parson (including himself). this one is for meg, who listened to me while i labored over this for entirely too long. title from goodmorning by bleachers.

 

Two long flights bracketed the last fight Kent would ever have with Jack. That confrontation in a bedroom that should have been familiar to him was the last thing he could stand to put up with. He’d gone in expecting to go back to the way things had been, back to the person he’d known before the overdose and the draft, but instead he was stonewalled at every single turn.

The flight Kent had booked for a few days later in a fit of optimism got swapped to one the next morning. He spent the entirety of the flight home with his hood up and headphones on, scribbling a long list into an overpriced notebook from the airport gift shop. It started with “Stop pining over Jack” and went on from there, a whirlwind tour of all of Kent’s least attractive traits. _Stop eating out so much, stop making out with strangers, be a better captain, call your mother more than once a month._ He wrote until his hand cramped, and then he read it back, nodding and marking the most important items with scribbly stars. Calling it a bucket list felt too grand, so instead he titled it “HOW TO BE LESS AWFUL”, underlined it three times, and closed the notebook.

 

* * *

 

Home meant Las Vegas, meant a humid cab ride back to his modest house, just far enough away from the strip that he could pretend the neon lights didn’t exist. The giant potted cactus by his front door was a welcome sight, and he smiled and greeted her by name as he unlocked his door.

“Hey, Big Bertha,” he said as he unlocked his door. The rush of cold air was comforting as he finally made his way inside. There was a collection of succulents of all sizes inside, and Kent greeted them all in kind as he made his way to his bedroom. They all had names and stories, and they’d all been privy to a host of Kent’s poor decisions since he’d moved to Las Vegas. They all felt charged somehow with all of his energy, and for whatever reason, that gave Kent a sense of genuine calm.

The master bedroom at the end of the hall was home to a thriving aloe plant, plenty of natural light, and a bed he’d been missing since his detour to Massachusetts. First, Kent fell face first into the bed. Then, he began to formulate a plan. The list he’d written would get tacked up on the back of his bedroom door. The constant reminder might actually shame him into doing something, and then maybe he’d be able to cross things off the list before too long. It didn’t seem far-fetched to his jet lagged brain, but he’d reevaluate when he woke up again later. For now, he had sleep to catch up on.

 

* * *

 

“Take care of your body, dumbass” is somewhere near the top of the list, and for whatever reason, that feels like the easiest thing to tackle. Kent sits up in bed and looks up yoga studios near him, reads over too many reviews of places with new age-sounding names and websites all done up in pastels and florals. They blend together until he lands on a place called Sin City Serenity. Their website is all clean, sleek lines, no overly flowery language, just a simple schedule and an invitation to drop in. That’s gotta be the winner, Kent thinks, and he plugs their address into his phone before putting on what he thinks is a yoga appropriate outfit and heading out the door. Enthusiasm makes up for a lack of skill, he figures.

It’s a short drive to Sin City Serenity, which is tucked away in an unassuming little strip mall off in the suburbs. All the better, Kent thinks. The closer he is to the strip, the closer he is to the billboards that feature him, all smiles and in full uniform, doing his best to get a desert city interested in ice hockey. Here in the suburbs, he can pretend that doesn’t exist. The Vegas Aces might as well be a world away, and right now, he wishes they actually were. The off-season isn’t long enough, and he’s got too much to do before he goes back and tries to face his real life again.

Now, though, he’s staring down the door to the yoga studio, stuck in place until some woman with a high ponytail and a yoga mat strapped to her back steps around him to enter, and he shakes himself from his thoughts and follows suit.

There’s a reception desk paneled in bamboo, a variety of plants everywhere, and instrumental music playing that Kent can’t quite place. It’s not busy, which he kind of expected for a Tuesday morning. There’s a beginner vinyasa class starting in fifteen minutes, something the receptionist promises will be relaxing and easy, even though Kent still isn’t quite sure what he’s getting into. He puts down some cash for a yoga mat, and makes his way into the studio proper, pushing himself to dive in headfirst before he can start to second guess what he’s doing here.

A few other people are already in the studio, women Kent assumes are regulars from the way they’re all chattering and have their mats clustered together. It seems safer to unfurl his mat on the other side of the room, so he does just that, settling in to do a few simple stretches while he waits for the instructor to turn up. There’s a tingle in the back of his skull that tells him the other attendees are looking at him, trying to size him up, maybe recognize him, but that’s fine. He’s got nothing to prove to them, anyway. This yoga experiment is just for him, and hell, if he only makes it through one class, then he really doesn’t care what they all think.

After an oddly tense ten minutes, they’re finally joined by the instructor, who enters with a smile and greets everyone he recognizes by name. Kent watches him intently, trying to size the guy up. He’s tall and thin, all wiry muscle and tan skin, with a calm smile and kind eyes. Kent thinks he’d like to get to know him better already, but that’s not what he’s here for. In fact, that goes against so much of what’s on his list, so he pushes that thought away, tamps it down, and focuses instead on what the instructor is saying.

“For the newcomers, I’m Corey,” he says, and his voice is warm and low, somehow exactly what Kent expected. “We’re going to be doing forty-five minutes of easy flow, just get everyone moving, get that blood flowing. Let’s start in child’s pose.”

For the next forty-five minutes, Kent barely keeps up, even with the slower pace. None of what they’re doing is too hard for him, but he’s distracted trying to follow what the poses are, and occasionally by Corey’s smile, as much as he doesn’t want that to be the case. By the end of class, he’s covered in a fine layer of sweat, and a weird feeling of relief washes over him.

There are a few women that crowd Corey after the class is over, and Kent hangs back slightly, waiting until they all wave goodbye before stepping forward. “That was a great class, thank you,” he says, and he means it.

“Thank you for coming,” Corey says, reaching out to squeeze Kent’s shoulder. It’s such a simple action, but it’s exactly what Kent needs, somehow. “You’re new, right? I haven’t seen you in class before.”

“I am, yeah. First day, just testing out the waters. Maybe you didn’t notice, but I’ve never done this before.”

Corey laughs, rich and warm, “I kind of noticed. But you’ll get better, that’s what beginner classes are for. Don’t be shy about coming back.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say to that, so he smiles and steps back, heading towards the reception desk again. Once he’s there, he pays up front for a year’s membership. It’s time to go big.

 

* * *

 

Three days a week of early morning vinyasa flow classes turns out to be good for Kent. He goes home after, sits on his porch by Big Bertha, and talks out whatever opened up in his mind while he worked through the flow. For all that he’s been afraid of what’s lurking in his head, it turns out letting his mind and heart open while he moves through poses does wonders for his sense of clarity. There’s still a major part of him that feels like things are a disaster around him, like at some point, everything is going to come truly crashing down, but after class, he tells Bertha, it feels a little more like he can handle it.

It’s all very new age and crunchy, and somewhere in his heart he feels embarrassed that he’s turned into the kind of person that truly believes in yoga bringing some level of clarity. The rest of the list still looms large over him, though he knows he’s in a hell of his own making when it comes to that. There are four full pages tacked up on his bedroom door, the last page added on in the few weeks since he’s been home from Massachusetts. That one is a measure more hopeful than the rest: _Finally forgive Jack, meet a boy that loves you, make sure he loves you back, take him home to visit mom, don’t let yourself ruin it._

Some things were easier. He’d emptied out his guest room closet of a ton of old memorabilia, boxes full of old playbooks, journals written up in Rimouski, photos he never wanted to see again. He filled his kitchen with fresh fruit, started going to the Las Vegas Farmer’s Market, stopped ordering in because it was easier than using his hands to actually create something. Some things languished on his countertop and never got eaten, but just as much went into homemade dishes. Somewhere, it all evened out.

 

* * *

 

A full month deep into yoga classes, Kent has started practicing at home, when he can get his head clear enough, and he’s not falling behind in class anymore. Corey compliments his form after class sometimes, tells him how he’s improving, gives him a warm, genuine smile. Kent tries and fails after every class to properly introduce himself, make conversation about something other than yoga, _anything_. Even his teammates don’t really feel like friends these days, and even though it’s crazy, sometimes it feels like Corey is the closest thing he’s got to a genuine friendship anymore.

After his first intermediate class (a Wednesday morning, even earlier than usual, his toes had slipped during downward dog and he’d nearly broken his nose), he’s too worn out to care about propriety, so he stays after, waits outside the studio like a stalker until Corey leaves the small room, and then he takes his chance.

“Hey, uh. Corey? I just — this is probably ridiculous, but would you want to grab lunch or something?”

Corey stops in his tracks, and he looks surprised but not upset. “If it’s just lunch, sure,” he says, easy as anything. “It’s Kent, right? You never actually told me your name, but I saw your name when you got a membership.”

“Wait, you did?” Now it’s Kent’s turn to be surprised.

“I own the studio, I see all the member sign-ups,” Corey says with a shrug. “I’ve got to keep track of mysterious new students somehow.”

Kent laughs, high and bright, and he shakes his head. “I had no idea you owned this place. It’s great, just for the record. Best studio I’ve tried. The only one, but still, I stand by that.”

“High praise, coming from a true connoisseur,” Corey laughs. “Come by later though, my last class of the morning gets out at 12:30. We can grab lunch after that. Deal?”

“You’re on,” Kent says, and he leaves with a wave before he can say anything ridiculous that’ll ruin whatever he just managed to do. As he makes his way out the door, he looks over his shoulder, and he almost can’t believe it when Corey is still smiling at him.

A few hours, a long pacing session in his backyard, and a shower later, Kent rolls up at Sin City Serenity for the second time that day. When he heads inside, the receptionist gives him a knowing sort of smile, and he doesn’t have enough time to process exactly what that means before Corey is emerging from what Kent assumes must be his office.

“You ready?” He asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “There’s a place we can walk to, it’s great, really fresh food. Sound like a plan?” All Kent can do is nod, and Corey seems to take that for enough of an answer to start leading the way. For all Kent knows, this could be a disaster, but it’s a beautiful day, he’s got good company, and he’s willing to take the leap.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe that wasn’t completely horrible,” Kent tells Big Bertha later, when he finally drags himself home. A chair is on his porch now, dragged there from its rightful place in his backyard, and he’s settled in to talk. “We sat there for like an hour? And it wasn’t weird, mostly. Not once I actually got talking. I swear to god I sat and stared for way too long, like I forgot how to behave like a normal person. But he’s cool, you know? Grew up here, but isn’t messed up because of it. Skipped college, owns his own studio, and frankly, likes kale way too much. Which, like, I’m not holding against him, but if we end up hanging out again, that’s not gonna rub off on me. And we’ll see about that, since it’s fucking weird that I’m trying to just hang out with my yoga teacher, but that’s whatever. It’s not at all the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

The talking goes on until his throat feels dry and cracked, and he gives up, patting Big Bertha’s pot before heading inside. He feels lighter, like he always does after unloading on Bertha, but there’s also an emptiness in his chest. He heads to the kitchen, grabs a beer, and sets himself with a marathon of some mindless shows on Food Network. Enough progress has been made for one day, he figures. No need to push it.

Marathoning TV turns into ordering in some Thai food and spending too much time in weirder corners of the internet, and before Kent knows it, he’s making the bad decision to search his own name just to see what’s out there. His manager has told him over and over not to do it, that it’ll just make him crazy, but every so often he gets bold, and every single time he regrets it. Rumors are floating around, the same shit that’s followed him since he played in Rimouski, and he’s pretty sure it would have died down if he had just stayed away from Massachusetts. Of course someone had tweeted about him being there, of course it had turned into a thing. _You brought this on yourself_ is the one thing that keeps running through his head, and the thought makes his stomach churn. The golden boy of the Aces, meant to be the face of a franchise, to launch a new team, and he couldn’t even keep himself out of trouble when it was as easy as just not booking a flight across the country. No wonder the internet was screaming to strip him of his captaincy.

If regular yoga classes have done anything for him, it’s making sure he notices when and where he’s tense, and it’s that sense that forces him to open his fists and stretch his fingers out in front of him. There are tiny half moon indents left behind in the meat of his palms, angry red marks that he knows will fade but he hates seeing anyway. It’s this kind of reaction that makes him unpopular everywhere he goes. He never did know how to manage his anger.

Kent is quick to every emotion, but anger is the only one that’s ever truly gotten him in trouble. That hair trigger is what ruined what was meant to be a reconciliation. The whole thing had started when he’d crashed a party, fine, but the party was huge anyway, and having a real live NHL player walk through the doors of a college hockey party should have been a draw. Jack should’ve been as excited as the rookies on the team had been when he walked in the door. They crowded him when he stopped by the keg, stuttering out requests for selfies between looking at each other with wild-eyed grins. That was the kind of reaction Kent had gotten used to.

Jack, though. He’d soured immediately, retreated back into the shy kid Kent had known in Rimouski. After maybe a minute, he’d disappeared upstairs, past the strips of caution tape that’d been put up in a half-assed attempt to keep people out of the bedrooms for as long as possible. It wasn’t going to work on Kent.

The actual conversation once he’d made it up to Jack’s bedroom is something Kent had made himself forget. That delicate Quebecois accent forming itself around the most terrible things Kent had heard about his character in years isn’t a memory he would ever choose to keep. He’d never choose to relive that.

In the end, he puts on a cool air, flips his Aces hat around backwards and adopts the cool guy bullshit he adopts when he’s on the strip in Vegas. It makes him feel untouchable. Before he makes it out to the street, he gets caught by a fresh crew of people that have caught wind of a real live NHL player lurking at the party. He says yes to every selfie request, and he grins for each one, hoping that when Jack checks Facebook in the morning, he won’t be able to escape his smiling face and the future they could’ve had.

 

* * *

 

In a fit of self loathing, Kent stays away from the studio for two weeks after that. He mopes around his house, goes for exactly one joyride on the strip, and spends too much money on stupid things on the internet. He pointedly does _not_ search his own name, and he screens his calls even more heavily than usual. The only one he answers is from his trainer, who wants to know if he’s ready to get back into the gym, if he wants to get back into fighting shape yet. It’s easy to say yes to that.

The gym with Patrick means grueling workouts. There’s no easy flow, there’s no soothing music. It’s all rope climbs and tire flips and agility drills that make Kent’s legs burn, set to a soundtrack of terrible remixes of songs that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. For a few hours, though, he can turn his brain off, listen to whatever orders he’s got to follow, and try to find some sense of zen in that lack of control. It doesn’t work as well as he wants, and he leaves with tense shoulders and a forced smile, but it’s a distraction, at any rate. It’s better than rattling around his home, directionless and unsettled even though he should feel something like calm in the place he’s lived for two years.

Exhaustion is almost as good as calm, Kent thinks as he falls onto his couch, too lazy to make the walk all the way to his bedroom. All that’s in his head now is a string of curses on Patrick’s name and everything he loves, which is better than whatever garbage had been rattling around there before. His whole body feels wrung out and horrible, but he has no interest in getting up to get painkillers or go somewhere more comfortable. He lets himself crash for the night on the couch, knowing he’ll regret it whenever he wakes up. It’s a brand of misery he feels like he’s earned.

The backslide into bad habits isn’t Kent’s finest moment. He’d gladly admit to his shame if anyone asked, but the only one he’s told is Bertha, and she’s not the chattiest. She never judges, at least, so she’s the safest sounding board Kent could ask for. It’s not as if he can be choosy, anyway.

Morning sees him with the quasi-tribal pattern of a pillow imprinted on his cheek and an unpleasant tension in all of his extremities. He groans, first into his pillow, then up at the ceiling, as if some higher power has the time of day to listen to his complaints. Removing himself from the couch happens in stages. First he sits up, attempts a stretch, lays down in the opposite direction. An alarm going off on his phone in the other room is the only thing that finally forces him to get up.

9:00 AM: BEGINNER VINYASA is the notification attached to the alarm, and Kent sighs when he sees it. It’s one he’s been ignoring for the past week, silencing it and hiding his phone as if it’ll make the guilt of wasting his membership actually disappear. Today he looks at it, silences it, and heads to his room in search of clean clothes. He has half an hour to get his act together and get to class, and he’s betting on being able to make it happen.

Just like he had weeks earlier, he stands in front of the door for a minute, stiff and anxious, before he finally takes a deep breath, opens the door, and heads inside. The usual suspects are settled in on their mats when he gets into the studio, and he heads to what’s become his usual spot and unrolls his mat, settling in and stretching while he waits the last few minutes for class to begin.

Corey finally walks in, calm and cool as ever, and as he settles in at his usual spot in the front of the studio, he smiles at Kent, warm and inviting. Some knot unfurls in the center of Kent’s chest, he takes a deep breath, and class begins.

After class, Corey catches Kent, breezing easily past the few women that always want to heap praise on him.

“We missed you the past few weeks,” he says, and that clear, low voice cuts right into Kent’s chest.

“Yeah, uh. I got. I was busy.” It’s a terrible excuse and Kent knows it, but he doesn’t want to own up to all the shit he’s been putting himself through.

“Want to talk about it? It sounds like it wasn’t the fun brand of busy. We can stop by the juice bar down the way, talk it out. I’ll buy, even.”

It’s a genuine offer, and there’s this stupidly earnest look on Corey’s face, like he really wants to help, and that’s what fuels Kent to nod.

“That… yeah. Thanks. It’s been, I don’t know. A weird few weeks. Weird year, if I’m being honest about it.”

Corey laughs, “I get it. You can tell me about it. Meet me back here at 12:30? We’ll talk, maybe clear your head a little bit. It seems like you could really use it. Maybe it’ll be good, since I’m an outsider.”

All Kent can do is nod in confirmation before making his way out of the studio, feeling a little disoriented and a lot confused. It’s not like that was unwelcome— that’s the last thing he’d ever call that invitation— but unexpected would more than cover it. Going from attempting to tamp down his stupid internal swooning over his yoga instructor to accepting an invitation out with him was a weird sort of whiplash he’d never expected to experience. He’d have to tell Bertha all about it later. Even she would never believe what was happening.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, he’s showered and waiting out in front of the studio, rocking back on his heels, attempting to look relaxed, like he hadn’t managed to pace around his room for twenty minutes while trying to figure out what the hell was happening in his life anymore. Whether or not it worked, he was greeted with a bright smile and an easy hug, which felt much more familiar than he thought he deserved. There was no reason for any of this kindness, as far as Kent thought, anyway.

The walk was relatively short and very quiet. For wanting to be supportive, Corey didn’t seem like he wanted to be pushy, which was surprising at first. Kent had been taken out by well-meaning friends in the past, people that wanted to “hear him out” but were more interested in just hearing his secrets than actually making an attempt to help. Getting the exact opposite experience from Corey was reassuring. It wasn’t always easy for Kent to sort out who good people were, but he’d managed it for once, and he’d be proud of that for a long time to come.

The juice bar was small, but had enough seats for them to settle in and hide out for a while, and Corey sent Kent to take over the lone empty table in the corner.

“It’s on me, don’t worry about it,” he said, gesturing over to the table. “I’ll pick something good for you. Not too much kale.”

Kent settled in at the table, picking at his cuticles while he waited for Corey to return. He indulged himself in watching him while he waited, taking in the way he moved and acted outside of the yoga studio. Even though they’d been out together before, he still wondered if his whole persona was an act, if he was just putting it on for the studio and all of the swooning soccer moms of Las Vegas. Watching him smile at the counter staff and make jokes, though, Kent got the idea that there was no way any one person could fake being that kind for so long. It would be insane to maintain that.

“They call this one Tropical Lust,” Corey said, sliding a cup full of oddly bright pink juice across the table. “Which, I know, the name is kind of silly, but it’s meant to be rejuvenating. Lots of ginger.”

Kent took a sip and smiled. “Much better than whatever you’ve got going on,” he said, nodding at the murky green mess Kent was starting to work on.

“I make no apologies for loving Kale,” Corey laughed. “And if you think Hail to Kale isn’t a great name for a juice, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I maintain that you have awful taste, but at least you’re nice enough not to force it on your unsuspecting friends. If you’d tried to get me to drink that, I would have turned around and left.”

“You would never,” Corey says, all dramatics, and Kent laughs in a way that he hasn’t known for a long time. The knot in his chest that’s been there for entirely too long has started to unfurl, and Kent suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You’re right,” Kent sighs, fiddling with the lid on his cup. “I wouldn’t. I’m not _that_ much of a jerk, no matter what the internet says.”

Corey tilts his head, pauses for a moment to study Kent, and there’s a moment where Kent realizes that no, Corey really has no clue who he is. As refreshing as it is to have a completely fresh set of eyes on him, it’s weird, too. There’s nothing much good to be said for all the assumptions that get made about him by people who know him as a player, but at least he knows what to expect from those people right away.

“Why would the internet be talking about you?” Corey asks, leaning in and perching his chin on his hand. “That’s… I mean, we’ve all got Facebook or whatever, but this sounds deeper than that. Is this what had you so busy?”

Kent takes a long, deep breath, doing everything he can to still his hands. “Yeah, that’s… it’s part of it. The whole story is so long? And kind of ridiculous, and probably more than you want to know about me. But if you want to hear about it, then I’ll talk it out. I just don’t wanna like, I don’t know. Overwhelm you.”

“Come on, I’m the one that asked you to come talk your shit out,” Corey says with a slow, cautious smile. “If I need to tap out, I tap out, but just try me.”

“Well. Uh. Probably good to start at the beginning?” Kent drags his thumbnail against the edge of the table, trying to work up the nerve to be honest about his life for once. “I’m a hockey player? Like, professionally. For the Aces. And when I was growing up, I played in Rimouski, for their team, and I met a guy there. His name was Jack? And jesus, I fucking loved him. As much as a sixteen year old can, you know?”

“I get it, yeah. I’ve been in that kind of love plenty of times, I feel like I fell in love with someone new every week back then.” Corey’s eyes are understanding, but Kent shakes his head.

“Not… no. Not like this, trust me. We… well. It’s not like, you know, people are cool with teammates making out with each other in the back of cars after practices. That’s not a thing guys do, especially not in sports, especially not when all of us were trying to make it up to the NHL.” Kent scrubs his hands over his face, already feeling his cheeks grow hotter as he tries to navigate all of the words he needs to describe what really happened. Nobody knows, really, he hasn’t been able to find the words to tell anyone about the Jack thing, and he has no idea how he’s made it to this juice bar with his yoga instructor and found the ability to say _anything_ about what happened.

“So we snuck around a lot,” he continues. “Jack’s billet family was really relaxed, they didn’t care if he had friends over all the time, so we got away with me crashing at their house. It was good, mostly, you know? I fucking loved this guy, I got to spend a ton of time with him, and that made it a lot harder when things blew the hell up in our faces.”

“It… how did it blow up?” Corey has a concerned look in his eyes now, something soft and sad. It’s a strangely piercing sort of look, and Kent has no idea how to handle it, so he presses on.

“We were getting ready for the draft, it was only a few weeks away, and they kept talking about how Jack and I, we were gonna go top two picks, we were gonna take the NHL by storm together. But he fucking, I don’t know. Had a breakdown, I guess. His dad wouldn’t tell me what happened, someone else had to call and tell me Jack was taking himself out of the draft, that whatever dreams we’d had weren’t going to happen anymore. And after that, when Vegas took me first, he refused to speak to me. Cut me right out.”

He leaves a few details out. There’s more about why Jack’s dad wouldn’t give him details, what they’d talked about when they planned their future together, all of it, but Kent isn’t sure he’ll ever be ready to talk all of it out. He unclenches his hands, familiar little indents from his fingernails in their usual places, and sighs.

“Sorry, I know it’s a lot,” he shrugs. “But that’s the start. That’s why everything else happened earlier this summer. So I can tell you the rest of the story, or you can tap out. I don’t really know if you want to hear it.”

“I want to hear it if you want to tell it,” Corey says, looking at Kent with entirely too much concern in his eyes for comfort.

“That’s the thing, I don’t _know_ if I want to. Which makes me feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.” With that, Corey reaches out and wraps his hand around Kent’s wrist, fingertips damp and cool from the condensation on his cup. It’s equal parts comforting and disorienting and Kent finds himself clenching his fist again. “You’re a human being. And you don’t owe me anything. If this isn’t helping, then we can go, you can head home, it’s all good.”

Kent considers it for a moment. Considers stopping, heading home, probably having a drink and staring at his stupid list for entirely too long before giving up and making himself sleep. As little as pouring his heart out in a bougie juice bar appeals to him, doing all of that sounds even worse, and he wrestles with himself before he can actually reply.

“Would you want to go somewhere else to talk? This place is just… I can’t. It isn’t my scene at all, and I don’t. I can’t get recognized.” That’s a fear he hadn’t realized he’d had until he’s said it, and now that it’s out in the open, he can’t help glancing around them to see if anyone is looking. He’d kept his voice low and he’s in the most nondescript outfit he could put together, but he can’t help being worried that Corey now isn’t the only one that’s in on his secret.

“We can go somewhere, yeah,” Corey says, releasing his hold on Kent’s wrist and standing up. “My office at the studio is close, or somewhere else. It’s your show.”

Kent stands, and takes a moment to breathe before leading the way out of the juice bar. “Is it ridiculous of me to ask you to come over to my place? I swear it’s not far, and I’m not— this isn’t some shitty come-on, it’s just. It’s where I’m comfortable.”

Corey blinks a few times and tilts his head. “It’s not. Well. It isn’t what I was expecting? But I can handle that, yeah. Just a friendly trip.”

 

* * *

 

A friendly trip translates to a tense ride in Kent’s tricked out Jeep Wrangler, back to his plant-filled house and the only sounding board he’s had for a long time. Kent watches Corey take in the place when he gets there, and he tries to be patient while he awaits a reaction.

“It’s smaller than I expected for an NHL player,” he says, all smiles, and Kent lets out his breath.

“It’s cozy, come on,” he says, and he pauses on the porch to smile at Big Bertha. “Hey, Bertha, this is Corey.”

“Hey, Bertha,” Corey says. “Nice to meet you.”

It’s a moment that Kent never really expected. A few other people have been by his house, a handful of friends and teammates and most of his family, and any of them that heard him talking to Big Bertha either ignored it or called it weird. Having it indulged is a brand new feeling, and it’s hard not to feel like it reinforces his gut instincts about Corey.

Kent leads the way inside, past the rows of succulents that line the entryway of his place, and he keeps looking over his shoulder to see what Corey’s reaction will be to all of it. Nothing about him is like anyone he’s had over before, and he can’t really rightfully predict what he’ll think of the way he’s choosing to live his life.

“Well, it’s a lot less flashy than I would’ve expected from your Jeep, but I really like your place,” Corey says, turning around slowly, still with a smile on, all slow movements like he’s dealing with a spooked foal.

“I like feeling cozy,” Kent shrugs, and he gestures to the couch. “Sit, we can talk it out here. It’s probably stupid, i just didn’t feel okay about talking it out where like. People could hear. So now you get to see my house.”

“It’s okay,” Corey says as he sits, folding himself comfortably into a corner of the sectional. “It was kind of a big ask, just trying to get you to unload on me. You barely even know me.”

“I know your name is Corey, you own a yoga studio, you’re way nicer to me than I probably deserve, and you like kale too much. That’s about all I need to know.” Kent falls onto the couch, sprawling out in his usual position, taking up easily twice as much space as he really needs. There’s still tension in all of his muscles, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s on display to whoever happens to walk by.

“That’s only just scratching the surface. Like, hey, here’s what I know about you. Your name is Kent, you’re a hockey player, you talk to cacti, you have trouble with your balance, and you apparently have a thing for succulents.”

“That’s also only just scratching the surface. And to be fair, you also know that I dated a guy named Jack. If you can call what we did dating.”

Corey nods, studying Kent again, taking his time looking him over. “Are you gonna finish telling me why that was important? That was years ago, right? Why does it matter right now?”

“Because I thought hey, maybe it’s been long enough, maybe I can go out to where he’s living and see if he’ll forgive me. I heard about this huge party the hockey house was throwing at Samwell, and so of course I went, and I thought maybe if I caught him in a good mood at a party, we could talk, maybe we could be friends again, and maybe he’d forgive me for whatever I did that made him just want to cut me off.”

“And that didn’t work out, huh.”

Kent laughs, all bitterness and bile. “Not even a little bit. I flew out, I crashed the party, and when I finally got around to talking to him, well. To say he wasn’t hearing it would be a gross understatement. The shit he said to me, the way he acted like I was to blame for his whole breakdown, why he’d missed the draft. It was garbage. Worst thing that’s ever been said to me.”

“And now you’re here,” Corey says slowly. “Talking it out with a guy you barely know. Why me? Because I offered, or…?”

“Because you offered. And because I made a list.” Kent shrugs. “On the plane, I made a list of all the things I needed to unfuck in my life, and it was kind of ridiculously long. So I started working on them, and that’s how I landed at yoga, and that’s, I don’t know, what ended up bringing me here in the end.”

Bringing up the list wasn’t something Kent thought he’d do with anyone at all, but he’s already let his guard down, and he’s already running his mouth, and it feels like he might as well just go for broke now. All of this was meant to stay private, all of it was meant to belong just to him forever, and now that the dam has broken, well. He’s done dumber things in the past few weeks.

Corey takes his time, then, stares at Kent, really seeming to appraise him. There’s no malice in his look, though, not that Kent thinks anyone with a man bun can be malicious or menacing, but it’s still good to see that whatever weird things Kent has admitted to in the past however many hours haven’t affected how Corey is treating him. Not for the moment, anyway.

“Yoga was on your unfuck yourself list?” He asks, finally, and Kent can’t help laughing.

“Not like, explicitly. It was, I think, ‘Take care of your body, dumbass,’ but yoga seemed like a pretty unintimidating way to do that.”

“I wouldn’t think anything would be intimidating to someone that gets paid to be athletic. I mean, at least when it comes to physical activity.”

Kent shrugs, picks at his cuticles, keeps avoiding Corey’s eyes even though he knows he’ll only find kindness there. “I’m not good at being still or calm. My favorite activity is running myself ragged. So going somewhere to be quiet and still and all that sounded like the biggest, worst challenge.”

“You kept coming back, though,” Corey says slowly. “You were so shaky, and you kept showing up and trying to get better. So clearly it wasn’t a challenge you couldn’t handle.”

“I didn’t think I could. When I got there and saw all those women who clearly have been going to your class forever, I wanted to leave. You made it easier to stay.” Kent looks up when he says that, and the knot in his chest is back, tightening around his lungs and making it hard to breathe. That’s not the kind of thing you’re supposed to say to someone you barely know, and even he knows that. _The king of garbage decisions strikes again,_ he thinks, and he bites his lip to keep from saying more. It’s the weird epiphany he hadn’t expected to have, and now that it’s out there, he’s terrified of what’s going to happen next.

“Keep staying, then,” Corey says, warm and kind, and he meets Kent’s eyes without hesitation. There’s something charged there now, some kind of crackle in the air between them, but Kent chooses not to interrupt it. “I’m not saying I’ve got some kind of magic touch or anything like that, but hey. Keep coming back. We’ll see where that takes you.”

There’s something in that, a promise, a confirmation, and Kent just nods, swallowing hard against the lump that’s developed in his throat. He has no way of knowing now where anything will lead, but if he keeps having days like this, then he knows he’ll be glad to see where it all goes.


End file.
